Frayed
by buffyaddict
Summary: My submittal to join SFTCOLARS. The aftermath of a hunt finds Sammy desperate to break a curse and save Dean. Slight references to Season 1 and 2, lots of angst. coughdeathficcough
1. Chapter 1

Frayed: by Shannon

Rating: T for some naughty words

Warning: coughdeathficcough

Ingredients: Angst with a side order of angst

Disclaimer: I own nothing supernatural. If I did own Sam and Dean I would love them and hug them and squeeze them and call them George (especially Sammy!).

A/N:Ahem. This is my first supernatural fanfic. I'm writing it for admission into SFTCOL(AR)S. I wrote fanfic back in the stone age for X-Files, Homicide: Life on the Street and My So-Called Life. So I'm trying my hand at this. (gulp!) I would appreciate any reviews (good and bad) that would help me improve my writing and get the tone of the boys right..

Also, a thousand thanks to Faye for beta-ing this for me. I heart her. If there are mistakes, they are solely mine.

"_I am sinking"_ - Metallica

Chapter 1

He manages to get Dean into the room, cursing a blue streak the whole time. Trying to unlock the door while keeping Dean on his feet is a bitch. The room is dark but Sam maneuvers Dean to the closer bed and lowers him onto it. Dean is silent but his hand moves off the bed, searching for Sam. It's okay, Sam whispers, It's okay. This has been his mantra ever since the Aswang got a hold of Dean. This has been his mantra ever since he blew the Aswang away, one part of his brain still whispering "It's okay," while his mouth screamed "Die you fucker, DIE!" and he screamed so loud something felt like it broke in his throat or maybe in his head.

But the Aswang listened at least because when Sam pulled the trigger, once, twice, three times, he could see the wet pieces on the ground like the world's shittiest piñata. He loaded Dean into the Impala with shaking hands and then they were gone. He drove the car like a dozen hell hounds were crawling up its ass. The Impala chewed the asphalt back to the motel in under ten minutes. Sam kept one eye on the road and one on Dean, muttering the mantra the whole time. Every once in a while he threw in a _Just hold on_ or a _Dean? Dean, can you hear me_? for good measure.

Now Dean's on the bed and Sam has the bedside light on and he's looking Dean over. Dean is pale but there's not much blood. A smear under Dean's nose and he wipes it away. He pulls off Dean's coat, lifts his shirt, checks for cuts and bruises. Flips him over, checks his back. No bruising and no blood. Sam throws his own coat haphazardly onto the other bed and checks Dean's head. No bumps under his hair, and still, no blood. Sam gently lifts each eyelid and Dean's pupils are equal size. Okay. Okay then. No blood and no bruising equals good. Dean is just unconscious. That's not a big deal. In the history of their injuries, "out cold" doesn't even rate a footnote.

Sam sinks onto the edge of his bed. He watches Dean's chest rise and fall. He leans forward and feels for Dean's pulse but his fingers are still trembling and he's not having any luck. Still, the rise and fall of Dean's chest is a good sign. He pats Dean's chest and whispers "It's okay." Sam runs his hands through his hair and stands. The room spins a moment like he just stepped off a carousel but then it shifts back into focus.

See, it is okay. Now he can be useful. This is his chance to take care of Dean like all the times Dean has taken care of him. His mind flips through a rolodex of memories and selects the image of Dean lying in the puddle in the basement with the Raw Head. He snaps the rolodex shut. That time Dean was dying. This time he's just unconscious. A world of difference, folks. So he goes to work.

He removes Dean's shoes and drops them to the floor. He yanks the paisley quilt and sheets from under Dean and pulls them carefully over his brother. Sam's mouth twitches into a crooked grin as he tucks Dean in. How many times has Dean tucked him in over the years? He can't even begin to count. He perches beside Dean. "Hey man, wake up." Dean doesn't move. Sam rubs a fist over Dean's sternum and Dean's arm moves to his side. Not much but at least it's something. Sam huffs. "Be that way. But I'm totally calling you Sleeping Beauty from now on." Sam gets up, hesitates, and puts a hand on Dean's forehead. No fever. Actually, he feels a little cool. Sam roots around in the chest of drawers next to the television and finds a worn blanket. He covers Dean gently and sighs.

There's something he's forgetting. He can feel it tickling the back of his brain. It niggles at him, just out of reach. He remembers the grisly chunks of the Aswang. Should he go back and burn it? Sam runs a hand down his face, uncertain. He really doesn't want to leave Dean . . .

And then he remembers. You don't have to burn Aswangs. Their bodies break down. Fast. In fact, if Sam drove back to the clearing, there would probably be nothing left to burn by now.

Good. Sam sinks into the chair in the corner and watches Dean. He wants his brother to wake up. But maybe the rest is good. He doesn't have a concussion, so he should just let him be. Still, Sam feels nervous. Uneasy. He can't put his finger on it. Sometimes he feels like this after a vision, but he hasn't had a vision, so . . .

What is it?

He sighs and gets ready for bed. He bolts the door, pours a line of salt and pulls off his sweatshirt. He feels sweaty and vaguely gross. He thinks there might be pine needles in his hair. But suddenly he's tired, so tired he doesn't care if there's a fucking tree growing out of his hair, he's going to sleep.

In the middle of the night Sam wakes up. He heard a noise. His brain flicks through the rolodex. He's in Sparta, Wisconsin. He's at the Lucky Six Motel. They killed an Aswang and Dean–

Sam remembers and rolls toward the other bed. "Dean?"

No answer.

A little louder: "Dean!"

And his brother sighs. It's a sound filled with irritation and Sam thinks it's the most beautiful thing he's heard in forever. "I'm trying to sleep here, Samantha." Dean sounds groggy. "What's your deal?"

Sam grins. He looks beatific. "Geez dude, you gave me a freakin' heart attack. How much beauty sleep does a guy need?" He remembers the nickname and adds, somewhat lamely, "Sleeping Beauty."

Dean snorts. "That was awesome Sam. You can call me Princess names all night as long as I get to sleep through 'em."

Sam pushes himself up on his elbows. "Are you okay though? Do you feel all right? When that thing grabbed you–" Sam swallows hard "–I was really afraid that–"

Dean cuts him off. "So you admit you're a chicken. I'm shocked and chagrined."

He pats his pillow, trying to get comfortable. "Okay, not really. I've always known that. But I'll pretend to be shocked and chagrined if you want."

Sam laughs. "That's not what I was going to say, jerk. I was afraid you were really hurt." A pause. "And frankly, I'm shocked and chagrined you know the word chagrined."

Dean makes a face. "Sam, please tell me you woke me up for something more important than this conversation."

Sam frowns. "I didn't wake you up. You called me." Hadn't he?

Dean pulls the covers up. "I didn't call you, Geek Boy. Go back to sleep."

"Are you sure you feel ok?"

Dean fakes an especially loud snore. "'Night Sammy."

Sam rolls his eyes and lays back. Jerk, he thinks. But he's smiling. And what he really means is: I'm glad you're okay.


	2. Chapter 2

"_Hostage of this nameless feeling" - Metallica_

Chapter 2

A finger of sun pokes Sam in the eye around six. He yawns, stretches, and rolls over to look at Dean. Dean is still sleeping. He recalls last night's conversation and the relief is so palpable his limbs feel heavy. He lays there for another second, savoring the feeling, and then gets up.

He's still tired, and truthfully, it feels like he didn't sleep at all. Which is strange, because he knows he slept because Dean woke him up. But whatever. Tired or not, he has things to do. He's going to go grab coffee and bagels from the motel lobby and surprise Dean. Then maybe he'll do a load of laundry in the Coin-O-Rama across the street.

He steps carefully over the salt and out the door. The sun is shining. The Impala is still parked outside their room. Dean is okay. All is right in the world. Well not really, but it's right enough for now.

Sam practically skips to the lobby and then halts outside the door, slightly embarrassed. He shakes his head, laughs at himself, and walks inside. He fills two Styrofoam cups with coffee, fills a plastic bag with a few bagels, some cream cheese squares, two packets of strawberry jelly, and a plastic knife.

When he gets back to the room he's hit with a wave of uneasiness so strong he stumbles and almost drops the coffee. The same uneasiness he felt last night . . . and a whisper of panic. _What the hell_?

He glances around the room. Everything seems okay. He shrugs and drops the bag of food on the table and carefully sets one of the Styrofoam cups on the nightstand by Dean's bed. "Rise and shine, Jasmine," he says softly. "It's a whole new world." He decided last night that he would start calling Dean Disney princess names. It amuses him. And it's bound to annoy Dean, so that's a double bonus.

Dean doesn't respond with annoyance or anything else. In fact, he doesn't respond at all. Sam's good mood starts to deflate. Dean's still sleeping and Sam notices he's on his back again. His forehead creases in thought. Was Dean in that position when he went out for coffee? He can't remember.

Sam wanders into the bathroom to take a leak. He considers a shower, but what if Dean wakes up? The pine needles are out of his hair and he really doesn't care if he smells. Dean smells more like a Mississippi swamp than an Irish spring, so it's not like he'll care.

Sam starts to pace, chewing thoughtfully at the inside of his cheek. Maybe he should have taken Dean to the hospital. But what would he say? And after the debacle in Baltimore with the police he's afraid to go the hospital. Not to mention the whole FBI Most Wanted. What if someone recognized Dean's face?

Sam sits on the side of his bed and rubs his sweaty palms over his knees.

He feels Dean's forehead again. Still cool.

He grabs Dean's hand and holds it in both of his, giving and taking comfort from the simple act. He knows if Dean were to wake up right now he would make fun of Sam mercilessly. Possibly for the next seventy to eighty years.

Sam decides he would very much like to made fun of if that's what it takes to wake his brother up.

He slides off the bed to be closer to Dean and leans his back against the side of the bed, knees up, feet on the floor. He leans his head back against the quilt and his bangs fall in his eyes. He half-heartedly blows them aside.

The uneasiness is stronger now. His stomach does a slow roll and he tenses. The nausea passes. He shakes Dean's hand in his, back and forth. "Dean," he says, "enough is enough. Wake up." Sam swallows, last night's panic crawling back to him. "I swear to God I'll shave your head if you don't wake up."

Dean doesn't respond.

"I'm going to have a picture of the Little Mermaid tattooed on your ass," Sam threatens.

No answer.

Sam covers his face with his hands and scrubs hard. Maybe he should call Ellen. Who else can he call? Missouri? Bobby? There's nobody else. He wishes Dad were alive. And then sighs. Because even if his father were alive, he sure as hell wouldn't be hanging out with them.

He feels sick now, a headache coming on, butterflies of panic fluttering in his stomach. He closes his eyes and offers up a prayer to God or his mom or whoever is listening. Let Dean be okay.

"Dude."

Sam's eyes snap open. He sees Dean looking at him and Sam knows his mouth is a perfect "O" of surprise. And then he takes a shuddering breath and grins. He moves forward and kneels next to the bed. "God Dean! Sleep much? I was beginning to think you were in a coma or something. What did that Aswang do to you?"

Dean rubs his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Sam flings his hands in the air. "I _mean_ you woke up last night and I thought you were fine. But then this morning you didn't wake up and I couldn't wake you up and I didn't know what to do."

"I know what you need to do," Dean says, his face serious.

"What?" Sam asks, a little desperate.

Dean grins. "Breathe, dude. I think you just won the grand prize for longest run-on sentence _ever_."

Sam just stares at him. He feels a flash of annoyance. And then relief. And then he just laughs. "Very funny."

Dean quirks an eyebrow. "Always, little brother. Funny _and_ handsome. That's why chicks dig me."

Sam smirks. "I thought they dig you because they're too drunk to know better."

"That shade of green does not become you, Sammy."

"It's Sam," Sam huffs, feigning annoyance, "and I'm not jealous." He doesn't care if Dean wants to make fun of him, as long as he's okay. "Do you want something to eat? I got bagels." He thinks about how long Dean has been in bed. "Do you need help to the bathroom?"

"Do you need help to the bathroom?" Dean sing-songs in a fake little old lady voice. "What, am I a cripple all of a sudden?"

Sam smirks. "Well, I haven't seen you move for quite some time, so frankly, I'm not really certain."

Dean scratches his head and yawns. "I'm fine, grandma." He hesitates. "But I am tired."

Sam's face tightens into a look of worry.

"Look, Sam. You know this job doesn't come with vacation days," Dean points out.

"I know, but--"

"And I don't recall any personal days, either," Dean interrupts. "So quit getting your pretty pink panties in a twist just because I want to take it easy." Sam looks dubious. Dean lifts his eyebrows. He uses his special Official Big Brother tone of voice. "All right?"

Sam relents. "All right."

"Give me, I don't know . . . another hour how 'bout? Then you can wake me up and we'll be on our way. How's that sound?"

"Fine."

"Good."

"Great."

"Sam," Dean's voice holds a warning. "This is the part where you stop saying words."

Sam laughs but he remains silent. He watches Dean roll over and flops down on his own bed. He can't stop smiling. He knows he looks like a moron, he's just so damned relieved that Dean really is okay.

He grabs his coffee and downs half a bagel while he sits cross legged on the bed. He checks e-mails but there's nothing good, and he surfs the web a bit, but the quiet of the room makes him sleepy.

He glances over at Dean. Maybe he'll take a little nap too. It's not like they have another job lined up yet. He pushes the laptop aside with his foot and flops back on the bed.


	3. Chapter 3

"_Hell is set free"_ - Metallica

Chapter 3

But Sam's eyes don't stay shut. He can't sleep. He tosses fitfully for a few minutes and then sighs, defeated. There's something bothering him and he can't figure out what it is. He stares at a crack in the wall. The sun has shifted and pale lines mark the wall below the crack. They remind Sam of claws. Or wings.

He's nauseous again and deeply regrets the bagel. He feels sweaty and panicky and sick. There is a definite vibe of something _not right._ It hangs over the room like a veil.

What's wrong?

He tries to think.

Is it Dean?

No, he's feeling better.

Is there something outside their room?

Something inside?

He remembers the Aswang's red eyes, the teeth. He sees it lift Dean and--

Sam pushes the memory away with some effort and listens. There's nothing except the pounding of his own heart. And suddenly there's pain in his head, a bright flash of pain, kind of like when he yelled at the Aswang last night. He regulates his breathing, desperate to ride through the pain.

There's something wrong with this place. He can't tell if it's the hotel or the town or what, exactly, but they need to leave before something bad happens. He grits his teeth and rolls over into a sitting position. His head throbs and he shakes Dean's arm a little rougher than he means to.

"Dean," he says through clenched teeth, "I'm sorry man, but we gotta go. You can sleep in the car if you're tired, ok?"

Dean doesn't move.

And now, some kind of realization, some kind of . . . memory almost within reach. But the pain in his head and the crawling shadow of panic are making it hard to see. No matter how many times Dean says he's okay, he keeps slipping away.

Something's wrong with Dean.

He tries again. "Dean, wake up."

Dean's eyes stay closed.

"Dean. Wake up!"

Sam throws a hand out toward the night stand to support himself and his coffee cup teeters. He watches it tip, slowly, slowly, and then there is a thin rivulet of coffee staining the carpet. He reaches out, flings the blankets onto the floor, and grabs Dean's t-shirt. He yanks, shaking Dean. Dean's limbs move loosely, but he doesn't wake. The butterflies in Sam's stomach grow into frightened birds and he can feel the wild wings and claws straining to break out of his chest. "Dean!" he screams, "Wake up! WAKE UP!"

The panic has Sam in clenched fist and he kicks at the mattress. It lurches slightly and Dean's arm slides off the bed. Sam spins and kicks at the wooden chair, sending it smashing into the wall. He wants to lash out, break things, make noise until Dean sits up and gives Sam that patented look that says: What the fuck?

But Dean doesn't look that way at all and Sam has a kick aimed at the garbage can like it's gonna be the winning goal when pain lances through his head. Sam collapses against the wall and slides down until his ass is on the floor. He hands are clasped to his head, fingers digging, trying to find where the pain is coming from, and desperate to stop it. Even through the pain he feels the _wrongness_. He can feel the gooseflesh on his arms, the cold sweat running off him. He groans and presses his palms into his eyes. He takes a deep breath and realizes the mantra is back like an old friend, he can hear himself muttering hoarsely "--it's okay it's okay it's okay--" and his hands drop away from his face.

He sees Dean and understands the problem. The Thing That is Wrong.

Dean is dead.

Sam can tell. Dean's face is ashen and it looks. . . blank. Empty. It looks like carved wax. Sam crawls frantically toward the bed searching for some sign of movement, of life, but there's nothing. Dean's eyes are open, flat and lifeless as old pennies. Sam opens his mouth to scream and--

--he's retching into the garbage can by the desk. He's on his hands and knees. His head is still pounding, but the pain has dropped a few notches. His face is wet with tears and snot and it's a hard to breath.

"Sammy?"

The voice cracks his panic right down the middle a little (only a little) of the fear breaks away. "D-Dean?"

He looks toward the bed, eyes wide and wet and red. Dean is sitting up and looking at him, concern etched across his face. A face that looks weary but not at all lifeless. Not carved and waxy at all.

Sam can't stop crying. He stumbles to Dean and throws his arms around him. "Dean!" He buries his face in Dean's shoulder. "I thought you were dead!" His voice hitches. "I just--God. Dean. _Dean._"

Dean rubs his brother's back with one hand and brushes the hair off Sam's face. He stares at Sam and quirks an eyebrow. "Dude. Did you just blow your nose on my shirt?"

Sam flushes and self-consciously wipes his sleeve across his face. He laughs but it comes out a sob. "No. I was just--"

"Crying like a little girl?" Dean asks.

Sam coughs and chokes out another laugh, this one slightly more successful. "God, yes. I though you were dead, Dean." He takes a watery breath. "I think I'm allowed to cry like a girl if you die."

Dean pats his brother's cheek. "Whatever makes you feel better," he says with a grin. Then the smile slips. "Why did you think I was dead?"

Sam rubs his face again. "You've been sleeping all the time. I mean, I know you were unconscious at first, but then you kept sleeping and when I looked at you I could just tell--" his voice breaks "--something was wrong."

Dean leans back against the headboard. "Dude. It's not the end of the world if I die. Everybody dies."

Sam gives Dean a look that says clearly: You suck. Out loud he says: "Thanks, man. I already got that memo."

Dean lifts his hands in a gesture of peace. "I know," he says quickly. "I just mean . . ." he sighs. "You're stronger than you think you are."

Sam starts throwing clothes into his duffel bag. "That's awesome, Dean. Can I be stronger on the road, then? Because I want to get the hell out of here. I told you before there's something wrong with this place and we have to go." He comes out of the bathroom carrying a tube of toothpaste and a trial size bottle of shampoo. "If you're done being Girlfriend in Coma pack your stuff."

Dean gives Sam a long look. "What do you think is wrong here?"

Sam ignores the question and picks up a pair of dirty socks and tosses them toward's Dean's duffel. "Fine, I'll pack up your stuff. I want to get you out of here while you're still alive."

Dean clasps his hands behind his head and crosses his legs at the ankle. His body language says he's not in any hurry to hit the road.

"Sam," he says softly.

Sam throws the covers he tore off Dean's bed on top of Dean's feet. He reachers under the bed and pulls out a pair of jeans. Momentarily wonders if they're his or Dean's. Then he sees they're made for people with stubby little legs and throws them on top of Dean's dirty socks. "Look, Dean, I told you before. If you're still tired you can sleep in the car. I'll hum you a frickin' lullaby, whatever you want. Let's. Just. Leave."

"Sam." Dean says his name a little louder.

Sam stops and looks at Dean, frustrated, a little manic. "What!"

Deans smiles, a little wistful. "Sammy, what makes you think I'm still alive?"


	4. Chapter 4

"_Flooded I'll be"_ - Metallica

Chapter 4

_Something is wrong._

"It's okay," Sam tries, but the mantra peters out like a dying engine.

_Something is wrong._

Because Dean isn't sitting up in bed. He's lying on his back. Under the blankets.

Sam is not holding his duffel bag. He's holding Dad's journal. He stares at it blankly. And lets it drop onto the desk. He stumbles over to the foot of his bed and sinks down, shaking.

What the hell? _What the hell?_ Was. That?

He takes a deep shuddering breath and reigns in the fear. It won't go easy. It's a tenacious bitch with greedy fingers and stubborn feet. But finally, most of the fear is caged up in the back of his mind so he can concentrate on the situation at hand. He sits up and pushes his hair out of his face.

He needs to stop panicking.

Dean wouldn't panic if he were in this situation. He would be calm. Sam takes another breath and thinks: What would Dean do? He locks onto the thought. A much better mantra than "it's okay." The simple answer: Take stock of the situation. Panic doesn't do anybody any good. He has to stay on top of the fear, ride it out, instead of letting himself go under.

Sam paces the room in a tight circle, going over everything since last night's hunt. Either Dean is dead, (which Sam rejects instantly) or Dean is under some kind of curse. Hell, maybe they both are.

Something strange is going down considering Dean keeps shifting between alert, unconscious, and dead. Is there something wrong with him or with Dean? Sam bites at his lower lip. Obviously he didn't do enough research with the Aswang. Can it curse you? He should know the answer.

He stalks over to the desk, rights the chair he kicked over earlier, and sits, drumming his fingers against the desktop. How can he fix this? How can he make this up to his brother? He looks between the journal and the laptop, trying to gauge which one will be more useful. He grabs the journal and starts flipping.

He reads for what feels like hours. After a while he turns to Google and tries to find out more about Aswangs. There's nothing that he didn't already know before the hunt. Just more myth and supposition. He researches his way through the afternoon and into the evening. Sam flicks glances at Dean periodically. His brother is asleep each time and sometimes Sam is actually glad. But only a little.

He's ashamed he didn't see the possibility of a curse earlier. It would explain Dean's weird behavior, Sam's feeling of unease. _Dear God, his face. Dean's face. He looked—_

Sam clenches his jaw, forcing the thoughts back. What good is the Shining if he can't pick up on stuff like this? Shouldn't the fact that he's Psychic Boy be good for something other than grinding headaches and visions of people dying? At least Dean can't see what a royal fuck up Sam has made of the situation.

Sam's lip curls in disgust. How many hours did he waste freaking out when he should have been doing something useful? He should have started the research last night. He sighs. No use wasting time on guilt when he should be working. It's time to get down to business. Time to take the fucked up out of beyond all reason.

After another hour or two he comes to the conclusion that Dean was cursed _before_ they went hunting for the Aswang. He finds a brief passage in the journal about a young girl who was cursed in 1921. The girl drifted between waking and sleep for days before she died. Sam suppresses a shudder. Dean is _not_ going to die.

He reads through the spell in Dad's journal carefully. He makes notes. Everything he needs to cast a reveal spell is in the Impala's trunk. After a few trips out to the car he's ready.

A glance around the room confirms he's got everything arranged according to his father's instructions. Consecrated candles in four corners of the room. The chalk sigil in the shape of a half moon on the door. The garbage can from the bathroom sits in the center of the room and Sam sits cross-legged beside it. He drops in the necessary ingredients: sea salt, iron filings, graveyard dirt, three raven feathers and ash from a recent salt and burn. In the center of the can he places a stubby candle.

He clears his throat and reads the words clearly: "Quis eram perfectus exsisto laxo; Permissum lux lucis iacio sicco obscurum; Purgo animus quod permissum vomica exsisto infractus."

Sam tears a blank page from a notebook in his bag and drops it into the smoldering can. He waits and counts to five, then ten. Smoke spirals up toward the ceiling and a sickening smell fills the room. It seeps into his clothes and hair. Into his pores. He coughs and covers his face with a sleeve. The smoke curls along the ceiling. It hovers like a spirit.

Finally the smoke clears and the smell fades enough for him to looks in the can. There's nothing but ash and a few embers. Well shit. His forehead crinkles and he checks the journal for the millionth time. The blank paper is supposed to be untouched. It's _supposed_ to have the name or names of the person in charge of whatever whammy is going on singed into it.

Instead there's just . . . ash.

Sam rubs a sweaty hand over his face. What did he do wrong?

Nothing, his mind insists. He did everything exactly right. His heart hammers harder. Does that mean there's no curse?

A sudden knock at the door startles Sam so much his foot jerks and knocks the can over. Now there's soot all over the floor. He scowls. Awesome.

He checks Dean. Still there. At least he's in the sleeping phase and not the dead one. He strides over to the door and–

Hesitates.

What if Dad got the spell wrong? Not wrong exactly, but not quite right. What if the spell draws the, uh, curser to the cursed? He slides the gun off the heat register and slips it in his waistband. He keeps his right hand behind his back, firmly on the gun grip. His left hand cracks the door.

A man stands outside. Mid to late forties, heavy with muscle turning to fat. Blond receding hair. The dude shifts from foot to foot looking nervous. Sam watches him, eyes narrow, on edge. "What?"

The man blinks, nervous. "Uh, Mr. Halford? I wanted to let you know–" the man pauses. Swallows.

"I thought we were paid up through the end of the week."

"What? Oh. Yes. You are. But, um . . . "

Sam watches him, watches his eyes, the shape of the guys shadow. He sniffs once, twice. Is that sulfur? His hand tightens on the gun. He can't tell what the guy is. A demon? Shape shifter? Skin Walker? "What do you want?" Sam grits out.

". . . there have been a few complaints about the smell," the man continues weakly. "And the shouting."

Sam just stares. He's not really listening to the guy, he's trying to _see_ the guy. "Cristo," he hisses.

The man flinches. "What did you say?"

"You know what I said," Sam snarls. He pulls the gun and aims it at the guy's (_the thing's) _head. "I will give you one hour," his eyes drop to the nametag pinned to the man's shirt and his lip curls, "_Nathan. _One hour to break the curse or I will find you and make you pay for the shit you've put me and my brother through. I will send you screaming all the way back to the hell you came from." It's a promise.

The man's face shifts a little and some of the fear dissipates. "Are you threatening me?"

"A little slow for a demon, aren't you?" Sam smiles but the look does not meet his eyes. His eyes are deadly. This is what it's like to be Dean, he thinks. To be the protector. Sam's finger itches on the trigger.

They look at each other. A beat. Two. "I'll be back," Nathan says quietly and Sam shuts the door with a quiet _snick._

Sam leans against it, high on adrenaline. Finally, a little progress. Sam moves his head from side to side, stretching the tight muscles in his neck. He pulls the chair next to Dean's bed. Softly: "I think I fixed it." He squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel the ache building. Soon it will blossom into one hundred proof pain.

"Hey."

Sam smiles at his brother. "Hey Sleeping Beauty. I finally figured it out."

Dean's eyebrows hover right below his hairline. "I'm proud of you, Sam."

Sam's smile moves into a megawatt beam at his brother's compliment. "Yeah, well, you shouldn't be." The smile drops a few watts. "I should have figured it out right away." An eye roll at his own stupidity. "It's so obviously a curse."

Dean just looks at him.

"What?"

"Dude, what the hell are you talking about?"

Sam pulls a combination annoyed/confused face. "What do you mean, _what_?" He ticks off on his fingers, "The Aswang knocked your ass over like you're made of straw. Then there's the coma activity, or should I say _lack _ofactivity, and the look of death."

"The look of death?"

"When I looked at you before you looked all . . . dead." Sam brings his hand up to his forehead and kneads, as if he can literally push the memory from his mind.

Dean wiggles his lips in and out in thought. "I did?"

Sam nods.

"You know why I looked that way, Sam?"

"Because of the curse."

Dean shakes his head. Quiet: "No."

Sam frowns at him.

Dean tries again, calm. "There is no curse."

Sam jerks like Dean's just poked him with a cattle prod. "Of course there is."

"Sam!" Impatient now. "You're not listening to me. There's no curse because--"

"No!" He flings the word out like a hand. "I read Dad's journal, I did the spell and there was a guy, a demon who–"

"I'm dead," Dean finishes.

And there it is.

They look at one another.

Sam tries for humor but he's shaking and he's sick and his head hurts. "Do you notice how I'm talking to you?"

Dean's eyes are sad, there's a ghost of a smile at his mouth. He cocks his head. "Are you, Sammy?"

Sam opens his mouth to respond, to be pissed off at Dean's weird behavior, his obstinance. But the words die in his throat. They dissolve into bile and he chokes.

Dean has that dead face on again. Pale and barren. The penny eyes stare up at the ceiling and Sam screams. The sound rips from his throat, like there's a hook and someone's pulling and he can't stop. "Dean! Dean!" He shakes his brother's arm and it feels kind of–

_Something's wrong._

kind of–

_This isn't real._

kind of–

_He has to wake up. WAKE. UP._

wooden. Leaden. Stiff. Take your pick.

Sam is still screaming when the pounding on the door starts.


	5. Chapter 5

"_Feel the undertow inside me" - _Metallica

Chapter 5

He's yelling at Dean to wake up. He's shaking Dean, pounding his chest, but there's nothing and he doesn't understand what happened. There's still urgent knocking at the door and he can hear voices calling for Sam Halford. He stares at the door and thinks: The demon has come back to break the spell. Thank God.

The chalk outline of the sigil is still there. It's in the shape of a half moon. The shape reminds him of something. He moves toward the door, hand already outstretch for the knob although he's still halfway across the room. The shape looks like a wing. And he remembers:

_That's an ugly little fucker, Dean says, looking over Sam's shoulder. They're looking at the sketch in Dad's journal. Some kind of creature on two legs, covered in black fur. Two wings that end in little claws, like some kind of freakin' bat boy. Red eyes and a beak filled with razor teeth. What has a beak with teeth, Dean wants to know. That's just wrong. It's an Aswang, Sam tells him. Pretty easy to kill but it's a real bitch all the same because its touch is deadly. Don't let it touch you, Sam says. Promise me you'll be careful. Dean grins, cocky and self assured. I will if you will. Promise me, Sam repeats. Dean winks. I promise, College Boy._

The door bursts open and there's a guy yelling at Sam, but Sam doesn't really care. The yelling guy is wearing a blue uniform and the part of Sam's brain that is still functioning in a normal capacity notes that it's a cop. There are two more behind him and off to the side is Nathan. _Nathan_. The demon.

The part of Sam's brain that is still functioning is growing rapidly smaller. He doesn't have time for thinking. He only has time for action. The cop is still yelling, he wants Sam to _get down_ and _drop the gun_ and _step away from the bed_ and a shit load of other things Sam doesn't give a flying fuck about. He's too busy pointing a rifle and screaming "Cristo!" at the top of his lungs. Maybe _over_ the top of his lungs because he can't really breathe very well, there seems to be some kind of problem regarding oxygen. Or more accurately: The lack of it.

He tries to blast Nathan with rock salt but the first cop is in the way and there's no time to reload. Another shot rings out and Sam feels the same hook that was pulling at his throat lodge in his shoulder instead and _presto! _the gun is out of his hands and he's on his back, as if by magic. He blinks up at the ceiling, amazed at the trick.

There are feet all around him and someone is grabbing his arms but he shakes the hands off and propels himself to Dean.

"It's okay," he says, "he's not really dead. He's been cursed. He's only sleeping." They are trying to pry him off of Dean and the yelling is constant but he can hear another voice that wavers and pleads and sounds all together shitty. He doesn't have time to figure out who it belongs to because someone is pulling at him and he notices his shoulder seems to be on fire. Someone lit his shoulder on fire. What the hell?

"It's okay," he says. The words fall from his lips like rain because his face is wet. His shirt is wet. His shoulder is on fire and yet it's raining. In the hotel room. He can't wait to tell Dean about all this. "I have to wake him up," Sam explains. "I have to take care of him."

Later, the Sheriff will lay awake in bed and tell his wife about the kid at the hotel. He will tell her how the kid would not let go of his dead brother. The kid--his name was Sam--insisted his brother was alive, although it was obvious to everyone his brother had been dead for at least two or three days. It was obvious to everyone except Sam. Sam with the wild hair and the eyes, those _eyes_! that look like cigarette burns and the hoarse voice that will not shut up. He will lay awake and hear the kid screaming that fucking mantra for weeks after.

Right now the Sheriff is kneeling in front of Sam and talking in a soothing voice. He's trying the soothing voice thing because the threats and yelling didn't help. Neither did shooting him. He's pretty sure the kid doesn't even know he's been shot. His deputy is on the horn calling for the paramedics and the M.E. He can't tell if the kid killed his brother or what. From the sheer amount of denial the kid has going on, the Sheriff thinks maybe not. The room stinks of death and some kind of incense and he just wants to pry the hysterical kid off his brother's corpse and go home. He wants to stand in a hot shower for about ten hours straight and wash the misery of this place away.

Sam's hand is clamped around Dean's wrist like his brother is the last life boat in the world. He's finding it hard to see or hear but since no one is saying anything he wants to hear it doesn't matter. He puts his face next to Dean's and Dean smiles up at him. "This is some situation you got yourself in, kiddo."

For some reason Sam can't talk because his throat is broken and he can't get a deep enough breath to fix it. So he looks at Dean and thinks at him: _You're not dead._

"That's where you're wrong, little brother. I've been dead for a while. It's just taken some time for you to catch on." Dean pats Sam's hand and looks at him with penny eyes.

_I would have known,_ Sam gabbles, _I would have known!_

"Sam, you did know," Dean says gently. "I'm not even here. I'm gone. You're making up everything I say. I'm not even talking to you right now. I wish I was." He taps his head with one finger, "But this is all you."

_No! Come back Dean. Please! I'll do anything. I'll do whatever you want. I'm begging you, I am _begging_ you, Dean. Please don't leave me._

Someone in a coat squats down beside Sam and plunges a needle into his arm. It's his fire arm, but he doesn't feel it. He doesn't feel anything but a great wave of darkness whistling toward him.

He's standing on a beach with Dean and the sky is falling and there's a black wave rushing up and the last thing he hears is Dean saying: "I'm already gone."

End

Vague translation of Latin: "What was done be undone; Let the light cast out the darkness; Cleanse the soul and let the curse be broken."

(If anyone is interested, I have started a sequel.) Thanks for reading!


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